Oh, my God
by huntergirl727
Summary: Dean miscalculated, the pistol he gave Sam in 'Asylum' was loaded.  Was a oneshot, worked it's way into a twofer.  Sorry, no spoilers, read it to find out if he lives or dies.  Please review!
1. Chapter 1

**Dean miscalculated, the pistol he gave Sam in 'Asylum' **_**was**_** loaded. Oneshot. Sorry, no spoilers, read it to find out if he lives or dies. Oh, and I'm not in the medical profession, I make it up as I go along. Please review!!**

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Dean strode into the basement of the Roosevelt Asylum. Kat, a scared girl who, along with her numb-nuts boyfriend Gavin, they had found inside the asylum, had told him Sam had gotten a call on his cell phone a few minutes earlier, supposedly from Dean, telling him to come to the basement. Dean knew immediately that the crazy doctor who had caused this whole thing was behind the call, and was probably doing something very bad to his baby brother right now.

"Sammy!" he called again. He had the sawn-off double barrel shotgun filled with rocksalt rounds ready in his right hand, and panned his flashlight around the dark hallway. The hallway was empty for as far as he could see. "Sam, you down here? Sam?"

He looked to his right, the wide hall was filled with all sort of horrid machinations that might linger in a psychopath's nightmares. _Man, what did they do to the people here?_ he wondered, silently thankful that he was never a resident of the asylum. "Sam!"

He panned back to his left with the flashlight, and nearly jumped out of his skin when a silent, statue-still Sam filled the flashlight beam. "Man!" he shouted and waved the shotgun at Sam, "Answer me when I'm callin' you!" He dropped the gun back to his side and moved closer to his brother. "You alright?"

Sam shrugged a bit at Dean's anger, then answered, "Yeah, I'm fine," sounding harrassed.

"You know it wasn't me who called your cell, right?"

"Yeah, I know. I think something lured me down here." Sam's answer reminded Dean of the attitude his brother used to give him when they were kids, back when Dean would tell Sam to do somehthing, and Sam's response would be along the lines of 'you're not my boss!'

Dean moved on. "I think I know who. Dr. Ellicott." Sam shook his head confused, but Dean finished his thought. "That's what the other spirits have been trying to tell us. You haven't seen him, have you?"

"No." Sam's brow furrowed. "How do you know it was him?"

"Cuz' I found his log book. Apparently he was experimenting on his patients. Ab...awful stuff. Makes a labotomy seem like a couple of aspirin--"

"But it was the patients who rioted." Sam argued.

"Yeah, they were rioting against Dr. Ellicott." Dean stopped, thinking that would be a sufficient explanation, but when Sam shook his head confused, Dean continued. "'Dr. Feelgood' was workin' on some sort of, like, extreme rage therapy. He thought that if he could get his patients to vent their anger, then they'd be cured of it. Instead it only made them worse and worse, angrier and angrier. So, I'm thinkin' what if his spirit is doing the same thing? To the cop, to the kids in the 70s...making them so angry they become homicidal."

Sam huffed, the lightbulb practically visible above his head with revelation.

Dean pushed his way past his brother, "Come on. We gotta find his bones and torch 'em."

"How?" Sam turned on his heels, throwing up his arms in protest. "The police never found his body."

"Well," Dean turned slightly, and stopped to address Sam. "The logbook said he had some kind of hidden 'procedure room' down here somewhere where he'd work on his patients, so..." He shrugged, "If I was a patient, I'd drag his ass down here and do a little work on him myself." He turned and continued down the hallway.

"I don't know, it sounds kinda..." Sam stuck out his lower lip as though he were thinking of the right word to use.

"Crazy?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, exactly." Dean shone the flashlight on the last door in the hallway, then opened it and proceeded through, motioning Sam to follow him.

The room was tiny, 8'x12' maybe, with nothing on the walls but dirt, grime, and mold, and contained one storage rack with a few items sitting on it. Dean was looking around, examining every wall, when Sam walked into the room.

"I told you, I looked everywhere. I didn't find a hidden room." He said boisterously.

Dean continued to scan the walls, "'Ell, that's why they call it hidden."

Sam glared at him, but did not reply.

Dean heard a faint rush of air in the silence. "Do you hear that?" He asked, trying to track down the source of the noise. Leaning down near the baseboard on one wall, he held his hand out to feel the airflow. "There's a door here."

He heard a rattle behind him. To his trained ear, he knew that was the movement of Sam's shotgun, but before he realized what was going on, he heard Sam call his name. "Dean."

He turned to look Sam in the face, then looked down at his side to see the shotgun directed at him. He looked back at Sam's face to see blood dripping from his nose.

Sam reached up to wipe the blood away with his left sleeve. "Step back from the door."

Dean stood, facing Sam with his full chest. "Sam, put the gun down."

"Is that an order?" Sam demanded angrily.

"Nah, it's more of a friendly request," Dean replied, trying to throw a little charm and wit into the situation, hoping it would help his rapport with an obviously ill Sam.

"Cuz' I'm gettin' pretty tired of takin' your orders." Sam brought the gun up from his side, fully extending his arm as he levelled it at Dean's chest.

Dean watched the barrel as it came nearer to his face. He looked at his baby brother who still blushed at the thought of a porno, now aiming a weapon at him. He chuckled nervously, "I knew it. Ellicott did somethin' to you, didn't he?"

Sam shifted back and forth on his feet. "For once in your life just _shut your mouth_," he commanded.

"What are you gonna do, Sam? Gun's filled with rock salt. It's not gonna' kill me--"

KRACKOWW! Sam had pulled the trigger.

Dean felt the rock salt strike his chest hard, knocking him backward off his feet. He fell through the hidden door, which broke in half when he hit it, and landed hard on his back in the adjoining room. Dean's head landed hard on the concrete, making him loose consciousness.

"No, but it'll hurt like hell." Sam said coldly.

_Ow,_ Dean thought, darkness surrounded him. _Breathe, damn it, breathe._ Dean inhaled sharply, the reintroduction of oxygen into his winded lungs painful in itself. He coughed as Sam came into focus above him. He rubbed his chest. "Sam! We gotta burn Ellicott's bones, and all this will be over, and you'll be back to normal."

"I am normal." Sam replied snidely, "I'm just telling the truth for the first time. I mean, why we even here? 'Cuz you're followin' Dad's orders like a good little soldier? 'Cuz you always do what he says without question? Are you that desperate for his approval?"

Dean grimmaced at the pain. "This isn't you talking, Sam."

"That's the difference between you and me; I have a mind of my own. I'm not _pathetic_, like you." Sam waved the shotgun around to make a point.

"So what are you gonna do? Huh? You gonna kill me?"

"You know what? I am sick of doing what you tell me to do. We're no closer to finding Dad today than we were six months ago." He held his arms out to his sides.

Dean moved his right hand toward his inside pocket and Sam immediately repositioned the shotgun to aim at Dean's head. Dean panted, "Well then, here, let me make it easier for ya." He drew his .45 from his coat and held it up to Sam.

A confused look pervaded Sam's face, not understanding what Dean was doing.

"Come on, take it." Dean held it up higher, closing his eyes. "Real bullets are gonna work a hell of a lot better than rock salt." Dean had checked the gun on his way down the stairwell moments before. The clip was empty. "Take it!"

Sam grabbed pistol in one swift move, tossing the shotgun aside. He leaned down and aimed directly at Dean's chest.

"You hate me that much?" He looked imploringly into his brothers eyes. "You think you can kill your own brother?" But it wasn't his brother. There wasn't anything there but hate. "Well then, go ahead. Pull the trigger." Sam stared at him. "Do it!"

Dean watched Sam's face contort with rage as he pulled the trigger.

Dean didn't hear the sound of the shot, nor did he feel the bullet enter his chest. His vision went black. He felt the blood start pooling beneath him, but even worse, he felt it start filling his right lung. His breathing started coming in short, shallow bursts. He racked his mind to figure where the bullet had come from, and he kicked himself when he realized he didn't actually check the chamber.

He tried to mentally calculate the probability that he would survive that shot, let alone another if Sam decided the first one wasn't good enough and reloaded. A .45 round at such close range would pass right through, it would leave a big ass hole, but it would go through. But the fact that he was lying flat on his back on a concrete floor meant that it would probably hit the floor and ricochet, and sending concrete schrapnel into his back.

He blinked over and over, trying to clear the black haze from his vision so he could see his brother. He wanted to know if Sam were going to shoot him again, but more, he wanted to see his brother again before he died.

He began to gag on his own blood, breathing it out with one lung, breathing it in with the other. "Sammy!" he called, as blood splattered his own face from the effort.

Something must have broken the spell on his brother. Dean heard the gun clatter across the floor, as he felt Sam's knees bump into his side. "Oh, my God. Dean!" Sam grabbed his right hand and squeezed it hard. "Oh, God, this is bad." He put his other hand on Dean chest, trying to apply pressure to stop the bleeding. "Dean!! Stay with me! Stay here! Oh, God. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it."

Dean coughed up more blood as he tried to speak. "I-- I know." He squeezed Sam's hand as tightly as he could, trying to stay lucid, to concentrate on something other than the pain, or the drowning sensation. He convulsed and threw his head back into the ground, his whole body tense.

Sam had taken his hand putting pressure on Dean's chest away and pulled his cell out, dialing 911. "Help, please help!" Sam shouted into the phone. "We're in the basement of the Roosevelt Asylum, my brother's been shot!! Oh, God, he's losing a lot of blood! What? What type? B-b-b-b, he's B negative. Please hurry!" Sam threw the phone down without ending the call.

Dean's breathing came now in short, ragged bursts. He struggled to speak, "Door's locked--" he pause to breathe a few times. "Got...to burn...Ellicott."

Sam put his hand on the side of Dean's head, looking at him intently, tears streaming down his face. "Door's locked?" He shook his head, not quite understanding. "Door's locked. _Door's locked!_" he shouted as he finally realized that the paramedics wouldn't be able to get into the asylum since the spirits had sealed the place shut. They had to finish the job, kill Ellicott, and there was a chance the seal would be released.

Sam scrambled to grab the duffel Dean had been carrying. The handles were still over Dean's arm. "Shit," Sam mumbled. "Dean, _Dean_, I'm going to take it off your arm, okay? I'm sorry." He gently raised Dean's back just a little to get the bag out from under him, Dean winced visibly, and Sam wimpered, a tear falling from his chin. "Shit!"

The bag was blood soaked, as were Sam's hands. Not a good sign. Dean was losing a lot of blood, very quickly. Sam grabbed the flashlight he had dropped, shaking it a little to get it to work.

He climbed to his feet and started searching the room frantically for Ellicott's body. He pulled open every closet, every cupboard. Finally he came to a small compartment against the back wall, he jerked open both doors violently. For a millisecond, Sam felt relief, he had found one of the things keeping his brother from the help he so desperately needed.

He rummaged through the bag, pulling out both salt and lighter fluid and dumping them on the dehydrated remains at the same time. "Hold on, Dean!" He shouted over his shoulder as he set the matchbook he had found in his pocket ablaze. "Help is on the way. Stay with me!!"

He threw the ball of fire at the body. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw a shape he hadn't noticed before. He turned to see the spirit of Dr. Sanford Ellicott go up in flames.

"Dean? Sam? We heard-- Oh, my God!" He turned to see Kat and Gavin standing in the doorway. "Oh, my God, what happened?" She screamed.

Sam just looked at them, mouth hanging ajar, shaking his head. He couldn't bring himself to say that he had shot Dean. "Help me get him upstairs," he commanded. "The doors should open now." He jogged the short distance between himself and Dean.

Sam positioned his face right over Dean's. He was still breathing, but slower, blood covering his chin. "Dean?" Sam called, shaking Dean's face a little with his right hand. "Dean?? Dean, open your eyes. You have to open your eyes! Dean!"

His closed eyes fluttered slightly, but did not fully open.

"Good enough," Sam made a snap decision. "Kat, you grab his legs. Gavin, get on the other side of his upper half, we'll both carry him."

The two teenagers were in shock over what they were witnessing, and did not move at first. "Now!" Sam shouted, which seemed to work, as both ran to do as he said.

"Sammy..." Dean said very quietly, as they lifted him from the concrete.

Sam sniffled and bit his quivering lower lip. "Shhh...Don't try to talk, save your strength."

They were half way up the stairs, Dean shook his head slightly, "I'm...sorry." He struggled to get out, tears welling in his own eyes, which were now only slightly open and looking Sam in the face.

Sam shook his head, swallowing hard. "No, you don't have anything to be sorry for," he looked Dean in the eye. "Nothing. And you're not going anywhere, so quit apologizing."

As they reached the front doors of the building, they were greeted by the sounds of sirens outside. Dean was still trying to say something, so when they laid him on the ground and Sam took of his coat and laid it under his head, Dean used much of the strength he had left to grab Sam's shirt. "Live...normal." He coughed a bit, and continued, the words coming in ragged bursts much like his breathing. "Take care...of my car."

Dean's hand lost it's grip and slipped from Sam's shirt, and as Sam watched, Dean's eyes blinked slightly, but then did not open again.

"No! No, no, no, no, NO! Dean! _Dean_!!" Sam shouted as he released Dean's other hand and tried to find a pulse in his neck. Before he could locate one, he was pushed out of the way by the paramedics.

A police officer grabbed his arm and pulled him backward. His mind was reeling. The officer was saying something, but he was not listening, intently watching the EMTs lift Dean onto a gurney.

"Sir!" The cop jerked Sam around to face him. "Sir, I need to know what happened. Who shot that man?"

Sam watched as they loaded Dean into the ambulance. "He...he's my brother." Sam regretted what he was going to say next, especially if Dean didn't make it, but he had to tell the cops something. "We were just goofing around, we broke into the asylum 'cuz we heard it was haunted. He went crazy, tried to kill himself."

The cop, a short older man with a large beer belly, looked incredulous. "You're telling me that man tried to commit suicide by shooting himself in the chest?"

He shrugged, giving the officer a shake of the head indicating he didn't know the whole story. "He was alone. I don't know." A tear fell from Sam's cheek. "Can I go with him? I have to go with him!" He turned on the cop, a crazed look in his eye.

The officer looked him over, "Fine, we'll find you at the hospital." He looked past Sam's shoulder to the EMTs. "Hold it Jane, got a passenger here! Well, go, boy." He said to Sam.

Sam ran and climbed into the ambulance right behind the female EMT. "Is he alive?" He demanded of her, grabbing Dean's left hand

"Barely," came her grim answer. "But it'll be a bona fide miracle if he survives. What's his name?"

Sam looked around the ambulance, looking at the IV blood transfusion the paramedics had already started. He tried to remember exactly what name they had signed into the hotel this morning with. "Dean," he started. "It's Dean Tufnel"

She chuckled as she wrote it on the paperwork. "Like the guy from Spinal Tap?"

Sam gave a weak smile, "Kinda." Sam read her nametag, 'Jane', before he looked back to Dean, willing him to live.

"And your relation?" The woman asked, still checking off questions on her paperwork.

"Brother," Sam said without looking at her, his answer almost brainless. "He's my brother." He squeezed Dean's hand, looking at his brother breathe through the tube that was stuck down his throat. "Dad," he mumbled. "I should call Dad." He patted his pocket where his phone was usually stored, and realized he left it in the basement of the asylum. He reached for Dean's pocket, for Dean's phone.

The EMT looked on without comment. She was now checking Dean's pulse.

Sam waited for his father's voicemail to pick up, hardly expecting to actually reach his father. "Dad," he said when the automated system beeped. "Dad, it's Sam. Dean's hurt, bad. We're in Rockford, we're going to the hospital. Dad," he sniffled and wiped away a tear, "I don't know if he's gonna make it." He swallowed hard. "You might want to get here if you can."

Before he hung up the phone, the machines in the ambulance started going crazy. One let out a loud continuous tone, while another beeped wildly. "What's going on??" Sam demanded, tightening his grip on his big brother's hand.

"He's crashing!" the woman shouted, as she grabbed a syringe marked 'adrenaline' and jammed it into Dean's chest. She reached for the paddles to jumpstart his heart.

"Dean!" Sam yelled, "Dean, you can't leave me, man! We were just starting to be brothers again! Dean!"

"Let go of him!" Jane shouted as she pressed the paddles to Dean's chest. Sam watched in terror as his brother's full body tensed from the jolt, but fell back to the mat soon after, the machines resuming their mournful whine.

"Clear!" The EMT shouted. She pressed the device to his chest again. The same full body muscle spasm took place, but Dean fell back again, with no signs of life.

Sam looked around confused, "Try again!" he shouted. When she didn't listen, he shouted louder, "_Try Again!_"

She put the paddles back on their charger, then turned to face Sam. "Sir, I'm sorry." She removed her latex gloves. "I'm _sorry._" She repeated. "There is only so much the human body can take. Your brother has simply lost too much blood."

Sam sat staring at Dean as the only noise left was the lonely, monotone squeal of the now useless heart monitor.


	2. Chapter 2

_**This is for those who couldn't abide what I had done to Dean... I better get some reviews for this.**_

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**She put the paddles back on their charger, then turned to face Sam. "Sir, I'm sorry." She removed her latex gloves. "I'm **_**sorry.**_**" She repeated. "There is only so much the human body can take. Your brother has simply lost too much blood."**

**Sam sat staring at Dean as the only noise left was the lonely, monotone squeal of the now useless heart monitor.**

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Sam grabbed the paramedic by the shoulders, shaking her hard. _"I said TRY AGAIN!"_

Jane looked at the tortured man before her. He was obviously in anguish...and quite a bit larger than she was. She exhaled deeply. _What the hell...might as well._ She thought, as grabbed the defibrillator paddles again. "You're going to have to move."

Sam released her arms immediately, but his arms hung in the air as if he were in slow motion, and he watched her work with a look of shock on his face.

She laid the paddles on Dean's chest, spaced so the charge would enter his chest from above, then exit through the paddle slightly under Dean's left arm, passing through his heart in the process. The machine whirred as it charged, getting louder, indicating readiness. Jane looked to verify Sam was not touching Dean, then depressed the button.

Again, Dean's whole body tensed, raising itself a few centimeters off the gurney.

Sam could see a tear roll down the side of Dean's face from open, glassy eyes, and he put a hand to his mouth and pressed firmly as tears welled in his own.

Jane stood over Dean, watching for any signs of life. As she stared, she fell back into her seat slouching, with a feeling of utter uselessness, still clutching the defibrillator paddles in her hands.

Tears running down his face freely now, Sam rose to stand over Dean, face to face. He placed a hand on each side of his brother's face, shaking it slightly. "Dean," he pleaded. "Dean, you can't leave me all alone."

He sniffled, watching for any sign. After a few seconds, he resigned himself to the fact that his big brother was truly dead. He moved his thumbs from the sides of Dean's head to his eyes, to close them; the maneuver filled with love and compassion.

As the eyes sealed, a machine off to Sam's right beeped faintly.

He jerked his head up to look at Jane, who looked just as shocked as he was. "What is that?" he demanded.

She reached up and pressed a few buttons on a touch-screen monitor before answering. "...His heart," she shook her head confused. Then she snapped out of it, grabbing the radio handset strapped to her shoulder and pressing the communicator button, "Put a move on it, Beau!! He's still breathin', but gotta get 'im there _now_!"

Sam felt the ambulance lurch forward as the driver slammed on the gas and he was thrown backward a bit.

Jane grabbed her handset again, rattling off a list of statistics from the screens, now alive from activity, to the awaiting hospital staff. She grabbed a prefilled syringe from a locked drawer and stabbed it into the tube going into Dean's arm.

Sam pulled himself away from the back wall of the compartment and reached for Dean's hand again. He exhaled in broken pants, eyes searching Dean's face. He couldn't believe it. His brother...his protector...his _friend_...was alive.

Both Sam and Jane grabbed the side of the ambulance as it practically skidded to a halt at the hospital. Apparently, when prompted, Beau had a penchant for driving like his unconscious passenger.

The back doors flew open, and several hands reached in at the same time to pull the gurney out. Jane climbed out holding on to the head end of the bed, retelling the same stats she had over the radio. Sam followed, quickly catching up enough to put his hand on Dean's shoulder.

The tube down Dean's throat still pumped oxygen into his blood-filled lungs, but he made no movement. Sam jogged along with the medical staff, still holding his brother, not wanting to give him up.

"Sir," a small, stout woman stepped directly in front of him, stopping his progress. Dean and the team of doctors and nurses disappeared around a corner. "You need to wait out here, sir."

Sam tried to force his way past her. "He's my brother, I have to go with him!"

The harsh-faced woman put her hands on Sam's waist, which seemed to be about the same height as her shoulders, and held him back gently. "No, sir, they are doing everything they can and you would just be in the way. I'll keep you apprised of any changes in your brother's condition."

Sam huffed, and backed up a little. He didn't want to stay back. He didn't want to go sit down in some dingy little lounge with three-year-old magazines and terrible coffee to wait _patiently_ for the word to come that his brother had died in his absence. He _did not_ want to be ordered around by this woman half his size.

But he knew she was right. He would be in the way. And he also knew that if he made too big a fuss, the authorities might dig into his true identity more than he'd like.

He put his hands up in defeat and backed away, turning a few steps later to walk back to the emergency lounge.

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Three hours later, Sam had decided that there had been no other news in all of Illinois that day. On every newscast he had seen, the "suicide attempt at the Rockford Asylum" had been the lead story. Most had just stated another incident in association with the seemingly unlucky condemned building had taken place and that no details had been released on the people involved or their status, but Sam was tired of hearing about it.

He had been moved from the Emergency Room lounge to the lounge on the Surgery Floor, since a few minutes after they arrived Dean had been whisked into surgery. He had been pacing around the small room ever since, and had more than once gone to the Nurse's Station to ask for an update, and got a strange look every time he approached, most likely due to the massive amounts of blood on his clothes.

Dan, as the woman behind the computer mistakenly called him (Sam had corrected her the first three times), was still in surgery and there had been no word from the surgeons working on him. Yes, she said she was very well aware that Sam was the man's brother and was to be notified as soon as any news presented itself.

"Sir, your brother has received a very serious injury. It will take some time for the doctors to reconnect everything that has been affected by his wound." She tried to sound consoling, seeing the frustration and fear on Sam's face. "In this situation, the longer they are in there without bad news, the better it is for your brother. It means he's still alive, and being put back together." She reached up and patted Sam's hand lightly as it laid on the counter in front of her.

Sam smiled a fake smile, being polite, and pulled away, walking back to his seat. As he turned, he saw a man in a suit walking toward him, pulling something out of his inside pocket.

"Mr. Tufnel?" the man said, approaching Sam, holding up a badge before sticking it back in the pocket.

Sam nodded, swallowing. "Sam. Sam Tufnel. Is there a problem, officer?"

"_Detective_ Bob Harris." The man introduced himself, then motioned Sam to sit down in one of the waiting room chairs, sitting himself down in the one opposite it. "Not as of yet. We need to get your statement about the shooting of your...brother, is it?" The man said the last as though he didn't believe the claim.

Sam nodded again.

The detective made a note on a small pad of paper. "Okay, well, let's get started." Harris pulled out a small digital voice recorder from his pocket and pressed record. "This is Detective Bob Harris, it is November 24, 2005, taking the statement of one 'Samuel Tufnel'. Speak directly into the red light, son." He sat the recorder on the coffee table piled with old magazines between them.

Not knowing what to say, he stuck with "Uh, hi."

Harris scowled at Sam for the remark, but trudged on. "Where are you from?"

"Tulsa, Oklahoma."

Harris made a note. "Why were you in the Roosevelt Asylum last night?"

Sam shook his head and ran his hands through his hair. "We had heard from our cousin in Chicago about this place that was supposed to be haunted. We were on a road trip, so decided to stop to see for ourselves."

"Why did you have weapons?"

"We were just goofing around. We had shotguns filled with rock-salt rounds. Heard somewhere that salt scares ghosts, so we thought we should be prepared just in case ghost were real. I didn't know Dean had the pistol, I don't know where he got it."

Harris looked at Sam directly in the eye, obviously trying to determine if he was telling the truth. "Uh huh," he finally decided on. "So did you find any ghosts?" he asked smartly.

Sam sat back in his chair for a second, then leaned forward again. "We, well, we, uh... Some stuff happened that I can't explain."

"Such as?" Harris probed.

"Well," Sam ran another hand through his hair. "Gavin, the guy we found inside said something other than his girlfriend kissed him. I didn't see anybody else in there but his girlfriend, Kat, so I think that counts as unexplainable. Then when we were trying to get out, something made all the doors stick shut." He decided that when dealing with an already problematic asylum, one that people were already scared of, it was best to tell the truth...mostly.

Harris jotted another note on his pad. "Are you on any type of medication or illegal drug, son?"

Sam looked directly into the man's eyes and stated clearly. "No, sir."

The detective raised his eyebrows and rolled his eyes ever so slightly, showing that he did not believe Sam. "So, why did you light a fire in the basement?"

Sam shrugged, playing like he was an idiot college kid in a panic. "We thought it might make the doors open. Since Dean was hurt, I'd try almost anything. Seemed to work though. We got out."

"Did you ever think you shouldn't have been in there in the first place?" Harris chided, then paused for a response from Sam, but all he got was a sheepish shrug. "What would have caused your brother to try suicide?"

"I don't know." Sam said, looking truly baffled. "He's never been...I mean, he's never done anything like that, or said anything about it."

"Did you shoot him?" Harris asked flatly.

"No!" Sam shouted, standing from his chair.

"Sit down, Mr. Tufnel."

"I did _not_ shoot my brother." Sam whispered loudly, sitting back down in the uncomfortable, cheap, plastic armchair. Sam tried to read Harris' face, and thought the man did actually believe him.

"Did Kathryn Grant or Gavin MacLeod shoot him?" Harris continued as if he was checking off a list of prepared questions.

Sam shook his head. "No, they were upstairs, trying to get out. Dean called my phone and told me to come to the basement. I went down there, and couldn't find him. A couple minutes later I heard the shot. I found him in a room that I swear wasn't there before. I tossed the gun and I called 911. They heard the shot too, and came downstairs; they helped me carry him out."

"Mr. Tufnel?" A man in green scrubs and a surgical mask was standing at the doorway to the waiting room.

Sam stood. "Detective, can we finish this later?"

Harris stood and shook Sam's hand. "Sure, I think that's all I needed. I already spoke with the teenagers, and the paramedics, and all the stories seem to line up. The paramedics think you're a little scary when you're trying to keep your brother alive, so I guess that's a decent enough indication you probably didn't try to kill him. I'll be in touch."

The doctor, Dr. Canton, went on to tell Sam that Dean was in very bad condition, and though he had come through the surgery okay, and they had been able to excise the blood from his lungs, he was still in the Intensive Care Unit (ICU) and would be for quite some time.

"There is still a possibility that he might catch pneumonia from all the fluid in his lungs. We've taken measures to avoid that, though, it is still a very real possibility. The fact that his right lung collapsed is probably what saved his life, since it would no longer pump properly, minimizing the transfer of blood to the left lung. However, the bullet went all the way through, and he lost a lot of blood." Sam nodded knowingly as the doctor continued. "We had to close up the lung, reinflate it, then gave him several addition pints of donor blood. He should not wake up for a few hours, however, given that this was a suicide attempt, he has been restrained."

"Restrained?" Sam looked concerned.

"We don't want him to wake up and try to hurt himself again. When he is well enough, he will need to be cleared by the hospital psychotherapist before the restraints will be removed."

Sam knew there was an immoveable policy involved now, and it was his fault that Dean would be restrained, but there wasn't much that could be done about it now so arguing would be pointless. He hated red tape.

Sam nodded, blinking away tears of guilt. "Can I see him?"

"He is still unconscious, but you may sit with him for a while. Unfortunately, ICU rules only allow visits to be an hour, so a nurse will come get you when the time is up." The doctor turned to the nurse at the desk and she made a note of the order, then the doctor gently took Sam's arm and led him to Dean's room.

Sam pushed the door open slowly. _Oh, my God._ He recoiled a bit at the sight of Dean. His strong brother was lying prostrate, naked from the waist up save for the bandages, and was hooked to more machines than Sam knew could be hooked to one person.

As he entered, he pulled a chair from the far wall close to the side of the bed. He sat down and gingerly picked up Dean's limp hand in his own. It felt cold.

Sam didn't say a word for the near hour that he was sitting there, he simply wanted to be there, and let Dean know that he was there.

Too soon, the nurse Dr. Canton had instructed to remove Sam came to the door and knocked politely.

Sam looked up, "Time?"

She nodded meekly, "'Fraid so."

"When can I come back?"

"Twelve hours for an in-room visit, but you're welcome to come hang out in the hospital in the mean time." She smiled, flirting slightly.

"What am I supposed to do now?" Sam asked, completely lost, not even noticing her advance.

The nurse looked at him. His eyes drooped from lack of sleep, which was logical considering they had spent a sleepless night at the asylum, and he was still covered in blood. "From the sight of you, I'd say, go home, get cleaned up, and go to bed." She opened the door wider for him to walk through. "If you give me your phone number, I'll call you if there is any change."

Sam smiled graciously, gave her his phone number, and took one more long look at Dean before letting the door close softly behind him.

-----------------------------------------

Six days later, Dean was moved from ICU to a private room, where Sam could sit with him as long as he liked. Dean had not yet regained consciousness, but Dr. Canton assured Sam that Dean's body was working very hard to rebuild the hole left in the wake of the bullet, and that required a lot of energy. Sam had learned enough about the machines attached to Dean in the last few days to decipher the readings himself; Dean's vitals were getting stronger, and that was a great thing.

Sam had taken to sleeping in a chair with his feet propped up on an adjacent chair, holding Dean's hand in his own. The chairs were about as comfortable as a bed of nails, but they were the only place Sam had found he could actually let his guard down enough to sleep.

"Dude, you look like shit." Dean's voice croaked just barely loud enough to wake Sam.

"Dean?" Sam opened his eyes and blinked, not quite believing his ears. He pulled his feet off the chair in front of him and stood up to look at his brother, Dean's hand still in his own. The quick rise was enough to make him a little dizzy, but he paid the feeling no mind; he was giving his full attention to his brother.

"Yeah." Dean said quietly.

"Man, it is so good to hear your voice."

Dean blinked and swallowed hard. "I didn't think I'd be seein' you again."

Sam chuckled nervously, "Yeah, I was pretty worried about you. Didn't know if you'd pull through."

"Yeah." Dean tried to raise his hand to touch his face. He looked up at Sam, annoyed. "Why am I strapped to the bed?"

"Uh," Sam stuttered. "You tried to commit suicide," he gave Dean a look that meant this was a patented Winchester fabrication.

Dean dropped his hand back to his side. "Oh. Huh."

Sam smiled, embarrassed. "Doc says you're gonna be fine, but it'll take a while."

Dean blinked tiredly and smiled a very weak half smile. "Could you send a pretty nurse in here with some water, then?"

Sam laughed for the first time in what seemed like years as he pushed the 'call' button at the head of Dean's bed.

Neither of the boys noticed as John Winchester slowly shuffled past the door in a janitor's uniform, keeping an eye on his boys.

_Fin._

_----------------------------------------------------_

For reference:

The episode 'Asylum' orginally aired 11/22/05, and if you count forward from the Pilot (which featured Halloween), that timeframe would be about right. Since they spoke to Officer Gunderson the first night, researched the asylum and spoke with James Ellicott the next day, and the hospital was the morning after, I made the date 11/24/05.

Dean introduced himself as 'Nigel Tufnel' when trying to get info out of the officer at the beginning of the episode, hence the dreadful alias. If asked, his hospital records would reflect Nigel Dean Tufnel as his full name.

Since their last names are not used in the episode, I had to make them up for Kat and Gavin. Kat Grant is a reference to 'Cat Grant', a reporter from the Superman comics. Gavin MacLeod is the lead singer of the Celt band Seven Nations.


End file.
